


If You Promise to Stay Conscious, I'll Try to Do the Same

by LSPrincess



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Blood, Crying, Episode: s05e11 They Did What?, First Kiss, Gunshot Wounds, Inspired by Music, Last Kiss, M/M, Major Character Injury, Not Canon Compliant, POV Oswald Cobblepot, Sad, Season/Series 05, depending on how you look at it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 14:23:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20292919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LSPrincess/pseuds/LSPrincess
Summary: It was on the barricades, fighting for a city one of them didn't love, that Oswald Cobblepot and Edward Nygma were shot.





	If You Promise to Stay Conscious, I'll Try to Do the Same

**Author's Note:**

> I had the idea and just couldn't get it out of my head. Apologies in advance :'))

Ed’s company was something that Oswald had admittedly starved for in the past. Something he had been willing to risk everything for — something he had been willing to  _ kill _ for — something that seemed so unlikely and so out of reach that he cherished the fleeting moments of contact he had. Those formal handshakes and close poses for the overzealous photographer, the brush of their hands as Ed passed Oswald some form he couldn’t care less about, those far too rare hugs they shared whenever the moment seemed too painfully tense to ignore it — these were by far some of Oswald’s most cherished memories of his time spent with Ed, and ones that he fished to the surface whenever he was feeling exceptionally glum.

It had been far too long since they’d shared one of these priceless moments together, and Oswald could certainly not deny the feeling of emptiness that it left in its wake. An emptiness that had, up until this moment, been left desperately unfilled. Now, he found himself blinking in a disoriented haze with Edward’s arm wrapped tight around his shoulders, all but pinning him to his side as they struggled down a dark and dank street. Oh so faintly through the damned ringing in Oswald’s ears could he hear Edward saying something, some rambling stream of thoughtlessness, speaking for the sake of speaking.

In addition to the sort of drunken stupor Oswald found himself in, he could not ignore the exceptional discomfort that accompanied it. A discomfort that, as his vision and hearing cleared, seemed more and more distinctly recognizable as  _ agony. _ A great pang of it washed over him all too suddenly and he groaned with it, hanging his head and stuttering in his already irregular gait.

“Oh, God, Oswald, are you okay? Can you hear me? Can you say something?  _ Anything?” _

The halt in their seemingly directionless meandering alleviated some of the discomfort — no, the  _ agony  _ — and for that Oswald was more than grateful. Still, however, Ed was grasping mercilessly at his arms and shaking him around, holding his face and turning it up to meet his own, patting his cheek, jabbing his fingers under his jaw to check his pulse.

“Ed— _ ow—”  _ he choked out, reaching up with a shaky hand to grip Ed’s wrist, tugging on it as hard as he could manage and hoping it was a signal enough for him to  _ stop. _

“Oh, thank  _ God,” _ Ed gasped, placing a hand on Oswald’s waist and wrapping the other around his back to keep him steady. “Y-You were in shock for so long, and I know I shouldn’t have moved you, but we had to go, Oswald, we  _ have _ to go, we have to keep moving,” he blabbered, the tearful hitch in his voice not passing undetected.

“Go?” Oswald mumbled feebly, crying out pitifully as Ed wrapped one of Oswald’s arms around his neck and proceeded to guide them down the road. “Where?”

“Gotham General,” Ed replied brusquely with panting breaths. “We’re not that far, now. Just a few more blocks. You can make it, right? We can make it. We’ll be okay.”

“Gotham—what— _ Ed, _ a few blocks? I can’t…Ed, stop,  _ stop,” _ Oswald gasped, each breath seeming harder to obtain than the last, each step sending bolts of dizzying pain through his body. “Stop, Ed,  _ please.” _

“We’re too close to stop, Oswald, we have to…we have to keep going —  _ please, _ Oswald, please we have to—”

_ “Ed,” _ Oswald pleaded, hunching over and clawing at Ed’s shirt, “Ed, it hurts,  _ please.” _

“I know,” Ed said with a sobbing breath, slowing to another halt. “I know it does, I’m sorry. We can stop, Oswald. We can stop right here,” he said, guiding Oswald to the ground and then collapsing next to him.

The ground was far colder than Oswald had expected, but it wasn’t entirely unwelcome. In fact, once Ed had them both settled into a seated position, there was not much preventing him from just tipping over and lying back altogether — which, despite Ed’s weak objections, was exactly what he did.

The pavement was especially uncomfortable against the back of his swimming head, but the damp chill was grounding if nothing else. And from that reclined position, he could see the sky. Distant, yes, unbelievably so — cloudy, yes, unbelievably so — dark, yes, darker than anything Oswald had ever seen, but beautiful in its entirety in ways Oswald could never dream. It was a gorgeous sight to see while he laid there gasping and shaking with tears dripping from his eyes for reasons he couldn’t understand. It was a sight unparalleled, one that could not be improved — or at least, not until Ed leaned into Oswald’s line of sight.

That — oh, now  _ that _ was a gorgeous sight. Though he was disheveled and pale and almost ghostly looking, he was gorgeous, that unnaturally white skin such a contrast to the darkness in the background. If Oswald had been a gifted photographer, he would have captured that moment to frame on his wall.

“Are you okay?” Ed asked in such a weak and distant voice that Oswald would never have recognized it if he hadn’t been able to read his lips.

In response, Oswald merely nodded, the movement jostling a few more tears from his burning eyes, but he found himself too mesmerized to care.

“You’re bleeding,” he mumbled when his eyes fell on that dark splotch of red covering Ed’s shoulder. He should have seen it before, he scolded, for the color was so bold against its monochromatic company, the white of Ed’s rumpled shirt and the black of the city behind them, beneath them, above them. It was blackness that enveloped them, and blackness that was yawning its malicious jaws deep in Oswald’s heart.

“So are you,” Ed huffed, smiling tightly and hovering his warm hand over Oswald’s stomach.

And he was bleeding, he knew, for he could feel it slipping from him and pulling his eyelids closed. Such a strange sensation, he digressed, and infinitely more alarming to know that it wasn’t coming from his shoulder or his leg (as he had distantly feared). No, this bleeding was akin to the agony he felt, that horrid but sadly not unfamiliar pressure in his body, in his  _ side, _ that agony low on the bottom right of his front that made it so difficult to move or bend or breathe at all. And though there was that dreadful pressure, he could still feel the blood bubbling up, soaking his shirt and plastering it to his skin. Distantly he knew that his liver had most likely been damaged, which was a damn shame, and a loss to be grieved.

Grieving, however, would be so difficult in a time like this, in a time where the air was chilled and the city was silent and Ed was hovering over him, looking down at him, ghastly and sick-looking but oh so pretty. And Oswald told him as much, reaching up with a shaking hand and cupping Ed’s cheek, wiping away the tears that flowed so freely with his thumb.

“You’re beautiful, Ed,” he said with a smile, turning his hand to brush his knuckles across Ed’s cheek. “So beautiful.”

“Please, Oswald,” Ed said, shaking his head and covering Oswald’s hand with his own. “Please don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“You’re talking like it’s the last time you’ll see me,” Ed said, and Oswald wanted to wipe away the new tears that spilled down those sculpted cheeks, but Ed simply squeezed his hand when he tried to move it.

“Better safe than sorry,” he said with an attempted shrug, that simple stretch flooding his limbs with waves of red-hot pain.

“You won’t need to be safe  _ or _ sorry if we keep moving,” Ed said sternly, pulling Oswald’s hand from his face and glancing around as if checking for any predators. He looked quite paranoid, Oswald thought with an inward chuckle, for expressing his amusement would certainly lead to anguish.

“We can go now, there’s no one here. Can you move? Can you sit up?”

Such words did not merit a reply, but if Oswald had been willing to give one, it would have been a resounding  _ no. _ The thought of moving was instantaneously sickening, and he had to fight with what scraps of strength he had left not to throw up. Instead, he returned his hand to Ed’s face, who seemed to want to dodge it at first, but conceded and ultimately leaned into the contact.

So long ago, this simple touch would have been enough to set Oswald’s heart afire, to be able to stare into those dark and desperate eyes as naturally as he was now, to have this man leaning over him, hovering on top of him, looking down at him like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. So long ago, Oswald might have cried with joy at these simple actions, but today he found he could not nor did he want to do such a thing. Today, tonight, here in this unknown street, running his hand to the back of Ed’s neck and combing his fingers through his hair felt so natural, so instinctive, and Ed didn’t even blink when he did it. There was mutual contentment between them, an acceptance of these once forbidden touches, and that, Oswald felt, was a truly beautiful thing.

He once could have only dreamed of what Ed’s hair would feel like brushing against his hands, so soft and thick, natural waves curling around his fingers, welcoming him into their twisting, coiling trap of luscious darkness — seemed such a thing was inescapable in this city.

Time was immaterial in that moment, and no one could say just how much of it had passed before Ed began to look antsy again, eyes flicking to and fro, breath sharp and shallow. He wanted to leave, that much was obvious, but Oswald was so content where he was, was more than happy to keep petting Ed’s head until that stream of red spilling from his stomach finally ran out.

“Oswald, we really need to—” Ed began, but his words were so predictable, so worn out and tired and Oswald was so sick of hearing them that he interrupted him with new words, fresh words, words that had not been spoken in two or more or  _ fewer _ years, words that would never tire.

“I love you, Ed.”

_ “Oswald,” _ Ed cried, yanking his glasses from his face and pressing the back of his hand against his eyes.

“I never stopped,” Oswald continued, lifting the arm on his weaker side to hold Ed’s face fully, wincing at the pain of stretching that wounded flesh but ignoring it for the sake of regaining Ed’s attention. “I never could.” He smiled. “But you knew that, didn’t you, Ed?”

“Oswald, we have to keep moving,” Ed hiccupped, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Moving,  _ again. _ Those same dull words uttered over and over, further debunking the preconceived conjecture that Ed was the one easily bored with repetitive conversations. It was a disappointing revelation, of course, but simultaneously opened the door for Oswald to take it upon himself to keep their exchanges interesting — especially with the possibility that this could be their last exchange looming over them threateningly. So he said something that had never before been said, by him to Ed or to anyone.

“Kiss me.”

“O-Oswald,” Ed gasped, jaw moving silently. “W-We have to keep—”

“We will,” Oswald said, finally acknowledging Ed’s obnoxious rambling, “I promise. But please, Ed…Kiss me first.”

When Ed set his glasses aside and eyed Oswald warily, it dawned on him that the younger man was actually going  _ through _ with this request, this desire shoved forward by mortal fear and blood loss. When he leaned forward, Oswald could feel his heart leap into his throat, which was probably not entirely beneficial considering his compromised health. When there was no space left between them and all he could see or feel or know was Ed, he stopped caring about his aforementioned health.

People spent most of their lives fulfilling goals and ambitions they’d so ceremoniously designated a Bucket List, meeting these desires and achieving these dreams across the span of several years. Who knew that Oswald’s very own Bucket List could be so completed in the matter of a few minutes, every desire and objective checked off with the press of Ed’s lips to his, the way they worked so well together, the way Ed held him and kissed him so slowly, so painfully lovingly. It was a dream come true, and yet it was that precise moment that Oswald felt his heart break.

When Ed pulled away, Oswald kept his eyes closed, too lost in the sensations to bother opening them and too tired to try, anyway. With his eyes closed, there was only his mind and the distant beating of his own heart, promising dreams of Ed and eternities spent with him by his side, leaning over him, hovering on top of him, kissing him like a dying man. Kissing him because he  _ was _ a dying man. Kissing him because that faint beating of his heart was the ticking of their own personal clock, and with each beat, another second pushed them closer to the inevitable.

“No, Oswald, you have to keep your eyes open,” Ed’s voice came, a glaring light breaking through the dismal fog of imminent darkness. “You have to stay awake.”

“Talk to me, then,” Oswald said with a shuddering breath, peeling his eyes open to meet Ed’s face once more. “Talk to me so we can stay awake.”

“I will,” Ed promised softly, “I’ll talk to you while we walk, okay? Can you walk, Oswald?”

“I don’t…think I can talk if we’re moving.”

“Then you don’t have to,” Ed said, tucking his arms under Oswald’s back and pulling him gently into a sitting position. “Just listen.”

Listening was something that he could certainly do, for it required nothing below his neck (all of which was weak and unreliable). And listen he did, after all the crying and wincing it took to get him on his feet again. The pace Ed set was considerably slower than before, but still entirely too fast. Oswald was certain that it would have been unbearable if he hadn’t had Ed’s shaky but lilting voice to focus on.

The topics he brought up were never the same: first work, then the city, then Gordon, then memories, then his own canine counterpart, then just rushed stories Oswald felt were mostly if not entirely made up. He didn’t mind, though, for they were certainly entertaining and doing a rather splendid job at keeping both he and Ed awake.

Though the hospital was rumored to be just a few blocks away, it felt more like long, painful miles, each corner they turned another milestone, each boutique they passed more unfamiliar than the last. Oswald wasn’t even sure if they were in Gotham anymore or if they’d somehow transcended this city of darkness and distant explosions and gunshots.

If they stopped once or twice because Ed’s shoulder was causing him trouble, Oswald didn’t make a comment. If they stopped two or three times because Oswald couldn’t breathe, he pretended not to notice Ed’s tears. And when they finally reached Gotham General, Oswald’s eyes had closed, and Ed could cry no more.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from "Lua" by Bright Eyes.
> 
> Comments brighten my day! I love every single one of them! Tell me how cruel I am! Your tears are my nourishment.


End file.
